


How Not To Court A Veretian Prince

by Entity_Sylvir



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: (ever), Auguste Lives, Captive Prince Big Bang 2018, Damen is a dork, Damen never catches a break, Groping, Humour, M/M, Misunderstandings, Nikandros's eternal sigh, Sort Of, art included in story, courting, courting can be hard when you get off on the wrong tree-trunk, less-than-impressive first impressions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-25 10:30:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16659493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entity_Sylvir/pseuds/Entity_Sylvir
Summary: “He was—” Damen breaks off, swallows hard, pauses in the manner of a man soundly failing to find an explanation in what he is trying to explain, “—really pretty.”“What,” says Nikandros, “the fuck.”-The first time Damen meets Laurent, he mistakes him for a pet. It doesn't go well.No one lets him forget it.





	1. How Not To Not Start A War

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to the [Captive Prince Discord](https://capri-discord.tumblr.com/) and all the amazing people on it who helped and encouraged this one single random idea of mine until it became something I signed up for the [Big (mini) Bang](http://capri-bigbang2k18.tumblr.com/). Many thanks to the wonderful mods of said bang for putting all this together and letting it run so smoothly.
> 
> Also extra special thanks goes to my beautiful, beautiful artist [joves-stash](http://joves-stash.tumblr.com/) who did the lovely illustrations within. And also my equally beautiful beta [veretianblue](http://veretianblue.tumblr.com/) who watched my commas, nitpicked my adverbs, and generally listened to me ramble.

The first time Damen met Prince Laurent of Vere, high advisor and beloved brother to King Auguste, next in line to the Veretian throne, he mistook him for a pet.

He was, if he were to be judiciously honest, rather lucky he didn’t start a war.

Not that he was in need of people reminding him of that fact on a daily basis though. No _really_ , Nikandros, he wasn’t.

 

The conversation, as it were, had gone something like this:

> Damen is strolling the grounds when he notices the eyes on him, sparkling blue and peering out from a truly lovely face, watching with no small level of attention. He stops as he meets the gaze of the young man—pale and fair, sitting on the grass beside the fountain with his legs curled lazily in front of him, a tinkle of blue at his ears and another at his wrist. And he lets himself consider.
> 
> The young man greets him first, voice clear and bold. “Prince Damianos, I presume.”
> 
> Damen bows his head. “I must have missed you at dinner last night,” he replies.
> 
> “Forgive me.” The tones hold only a tinge of that upper class accent that some of those at court try very hard to affect. “I was otherwise occupied. Impolite of me to miss your arrival, but it was quite unavoidable.”
> 
> “Ah.” Damen smiles in understanding. “Popular, are you?”
> 
> A blink, and a little pause. “Indeed.” The word sounds a little surprised, as if holding some uncertainty of what to make of the previous statement.
> 
> Damen lets his lips curve further, settling into his most charming grin. “Were you waiting for me? Hoping to find me?”
> 
> He doesn’t expect so, really. The hour is early and he'd stepped out on a whim to take some time before the day began in earnest, no one could have expected he'd be walking through here this morning. But, he can’t resist the urge to tease, and for his efforts receives a slight quirk of a supple mouth. Not quite a smile, yet.
> 
> “No,” the young man says, “I’d been expecting to meet you tonight.” He pushes up from the ground, getting to his feet. “Though since you’re here now, I wouldn’t mind taking the chance to speak to you.”
> 
> Damen takes a few steps further forward. The other man is shorter—most people are in comparison—but not by too much. He still tips his chin back as Damen brings their faces closer together, a slight arch of the elegant line of his neck. His throat is bare as the front of his loose shirt falls open and unlaced. The angle of Damen’s grin turns sly.
> 
> “Of course,” he murmurs as he raises his right arm to slide around a trim waist. “What would you like to _speak_ about?”
> 
> The flank under his hand stiffens, surprise flickering over delicate features. Oh. Perhaps Damen hasn’t quite managed to uphold some protocol. It does all seem quite complicated in this country, with the contracts and agreements and those games around them. He gives a small sigh, softening his expression once more.
> 
> The man’s hand lifts in a halting gesture, and before he completes it Damen meets the hand with his free one, gentling, curling his fingers lightly into a warm palm without squeezing. “Tell me,” he says with a touch of ruefulness, “what man is lucky enough to have you?”
> 
> Daring to feel bold—it only seems right given the lavishness of this court and the equal boldness of the other pets he’s witnessed so far—he shifts the hand he has on the man’s waist. Slides it lower, past the hem of his shirt, to cup around one pert buttock.
> 
> There’s a whirl of motion, and barely time to register the hand twisting out of his before there's a sharp pain at the pressure point in his neck, another in his right wrist. Stunned, off-guard, his fighting instincts struggle to kick in through the spots swirling before his eyes as a cold voice spits furious Veretian.
> 
> “Not an Akielon barbarian whose hand I will cut off next time, I assure you.”

 

And the conversation after had gone something like this:

> “What,” says Nikandros, “the fuck.”
> 
> Damen slams down his goblet of wine some fraction harder than necessary. His sprained wrist twinges. A droplet splashes over the rim and onto the back of his hand. “He was wearing an undershirt and no shoes.”
> 
> “He was outside in the summer. Even a prince can get hot enough to take his jacket off.”
> 
> “He was wearing jewellery.”
> 
> “Half the courtiers wear jewellery. The King wears a band on his left arm.”
> 
> “He was sitting in the gardens, near the coupling alcoves.”
> 
> “He lives in the palace. They’re his own gardens.”
> 
> “He was—” Damen breaks off, swallows hard, pauses in the manner of a man soundly failing to find an explanation in what he is trying to explain, “—really pretty.”
> 
> “What,” says Nikandros, “the fuck.”

 

The trade negotiations were somewhat strained.

‘Somewhat’ was entirely an understatement. But, Damen agreed not to acknowledge his injuries as an official act of aggression, and Prince Laurent agreed not to stab him in his sleep, so that was one good thing. Nikandros agreed not to add the incident into the report to King Theomedes. That was another very, very good thing.

Damen was able to avoid being in the same half of any room as Prince Laurent for the rest of his visit through the combined efforts of Nikandros and King Auguste who were, thankfully, willing to go above and beyond to avoid a diplomatic issue. At least, he hoped that were the case. Damen noticed that _King Auguste_ hadn’t promised to not stab him in his sleep. Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure how much he could actually trust the Prince’s own promise. Veretians were rather well known for their duplicitous dealings after all.

Although, Akielons were probably currently known for unceremoniously groping royalty in public gardens. So perhaps he shouldn’t be accrediting reputations.

But strained talks or not, and relegated to surreptitious glances from the other side of rooms or not, Damen couldn’t help but notice something. Namely that the Veretian prince really was very pretty. And ruthlessly intelligent, brutally sharp-tongued in negotiation, subtly quick-witted. In short, not at all the kind of man one approaches with wandering hands and a presumptuous smirk.

This was. Not ideal.

 

On the last day before they were due to leave, Damen drank two cups of wine then hit himself gently—somewhat—on the forehead with his empty goblet.

“You,” he told himself in the same centring recitation he used before tournaments, and battles, “are Damianos. Heir to Theomedes, future king of Akielos, bloodline of King Agathon and King Eurandros.”

He’d wager that neither King Agathon nor King Eurandros had ever struggled with a politically-romantically-entwined predicament as a result of a Veretian prince's assets. He was in a rather novel, self-made, situation here. Perhaps this would be his unique contribution to Akielon history.

Steeling himself, he stood and strode from his room, a word to the guard at his door that there was no need to follow. He considered finding some sort of gift to bring, but reasoned on second thought that there was really no applicable apology etiquette here. Also, not bringing anything with him meant there would be one less thing to throw at his head should the conversation not proceed well.

Not that the Prince had demonstrated he required any weapon in his hands in order to express his ire. Unless, perhaps, there was a possibility Damen might find the gift returned the next day coated in an undetectable poison that, upon his touching it, would slowly kill him enough months in the future to leave no likely connection to the visit to Vere. Or make him impotent.

It was less than an hour before dinner, meaning it was a fair assumption that Prince Laurent would be in his chambers preparing and not still about elsewhere. The royal wing lay symmetrically opposite the guest wing, and it was in stepping across the grand platform of the staircase between them that Damen ran into Nikandros. He winced inwardly.

“Damen,” his friend began slowly, no doubt taking in in a glance both the direction of Damen’s travel and the tense line of apprehension in his movements.

Damen stepped up and dropped a hand to his friend’s shoulder.

“Give me a chance,” he said earnestly, “if I don’t manage to make amends—”

Nikandros snorted. Unnecessarily loudly, in Damen’s opinion.

“—if I make things worse, you have my permission to tie me to my horse and drag me to the ship with all haste.”

Nikandros took another few seconds to stare levelly at him, then sighed and shrugged off the hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll go get the rope.”

As he pushed on past, for once Damen was thankful for the abundance of Veretian decoration. The colour-coding of the adornments, and the emblems emblazoned acove arches and doorways made finding the Prince’s chambers an easy task. The two guards stationed outside the main door both snapped their gazes to him as he approached.

“Do you have an arranged appointment with the Prince?” one asked, in the voice of one who knew he certainly did not have such an arranged appointment.

“Please,” Damen replied. At least this meant he’d been right, and the room indeed was occupied. He spread his fingers a little at his sides, showing the emptiness of his hands. Then added, “I’d say you may cut off my hands if need be, but I’ve already be informed he would be doing that himself.”

The guard assessed him coolly for a brief moment more before shrugging, apparently in acquiescence to that last sentiment. With an incline of his head, he gestured for Damen to approach the door. Damen did so and knocked.

He didn’t have time for any further worries before the door swung open to reveal Prince Laurent, dressed for dinner with the exception of his unfastened jacket, which was trailing a long tie down one shoulder. He regarded Damen levelly, flicked sharp eyes to his men by the door, then back. Damen swallowed.

“I’d like to speak to you.”

“Oh?” A pale brow arched. “Speak to me, or _speak_ to me?”

Damen winced. His wrist twinged.

Then, to his surprise, the Prince stepped back in a wordless invitation to enter. Damen crossed the threshold quickly, letting the door fall shut between them and the probably too-curious guards outside. Once inside the chamber he hastily opened his mouth. He hadn’t, in fact, prepared a plan for what he was going to say. But he did have a jumbled week of scenarios envisioned in his head of how he could possibly explain, so that would have to do.

“Your Highness,” he began formally with the Veretian title. “Though it may not lend itself easily to belief, and I can only implore you will listen, I do have an explanation for my actions that I would like to express to you.”

Prince Laurent’s expression was entirely composed, not giving away whether he was waiting for Damen to give his explanation or if he’d only stepped back because it wouldn’t do to slam the door in his face. “Alright,” was all he said.

Damen took a breath. Then went on, “In the circumstances, I found myself confused by the way you presented your appearance.”

A cock of a blond head. “Yes?”

“At a glance I believed you to be—that is to say, my actions were a result of a mistaken assumption that you were—”

“Yes?”

“—one of the courtesans of the palace.”

There was a long pause. An unreadable one, a still moment stretched out between reactions. Dimly, Damen became aware that telling the Prince of Vere that he looked like a prostitute may not necessarily be an improvement on the situation. He was fairly sure, though, that amending that said Prince of Vere mostly only looked like a prostitute because he more than pretty enough to be one would be even less of an improvement.

Finally, Prince Laurent spoke.

“I see.”

His voice was light. There was a beat.

“You know, it’s not generally considered polite to place one’s hands without invitation on another’s person. Even a pet.”

“Well,” Damen replied helplessly. “I was in Vere.”

Another beat. Then the other man’s face twitched. To Damen’s shock, he realised the Prince’s lips were slipping very subtly into a smile.

“You,” he said, cautiously incredulous, “are amused?”

“I’d been trying to work it out,” came the reply, and yes there was definitely the overlay of amusement there. “First I wondered if it was some very specifically chosen act, to put me and my country in whatever place you felt we should be put in." The blue eyes sparkled. "And then I wondered if you really thought that was the best way to get me in bed, and that getting me in bed was the best thing to do.”

Damen resisted the urge to wince again.

“Finally,” Prince Laurent went on, “I decided you were too smart for the second and not smart enough for the first.”

Damen blinked. “I—thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” the Prince replied placidly. But even as he said it, his expression opened a touch. Lost some of his careful collectedness as he said, “You were good in negotiations. Better than I had cause to expect. You represented your country well, Damianos.”

Something in Damen unclenched too, the tightness of his jaw, the rigidity he’d been holding in his back. “And you,” he echoed.

With a graceful twist, Prince Laurent turned away. His face angled back toward the mirror on the other side of the room, finding Damen’s eyes in the glass. “I must dress for dinner,” he announced succinctly.

His gaze flicked away to settle on his own reflection as he reached up toward the ties at his collar. For a moment, Damen wondered if he should offer to help, step forward and lay his hands at the juncture of that pale throat, run his fingers over the length of that proudly straight spine—

But the Veretian was already pulling tight his own ties with practical efficiency and the long ease of habit. After the last turns of his deft fingers, as Damen was beginning to shift from foot to foot and cast about for a way to excuse himself, he met Damen’s eyes in silvered glass once more.

“You leave tomorrow,” he said.

“Yes.”

“My brother has already extended you welcome to visit again next summer.”

“Yes.”

Another shift of his lips, this time a little more deliberate. But no more.

With a small bow, and significantly less awkwardness than he’d arrived with, Damen turned to let himself out of the room. His shoulders felt lighter. As did something else in the vicinity of his torso.

He just caught the muttered words as the door swung shut, mused by the Prince only half to himself.

“A pet. Alright, that’s new.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, please let us have a standing ovation for my amazing artist [joves-stash](http://joves-stash.tumblr.com/)! Find the art rebloggable on tumblr [here](https://joves-stash.tumblr.com/post/180247114350/so-the-time-has-come-to-post-this-and-direct).


	2. Nikandros Is Not Useless As Kyros

The second time Damen met Prince Laurent, winter was just beginning to bloom into spring. There was still a season to go before the planned diplomatic visit to Arles, but Damen had been in Delpha visiting Nikandros, the Veretian King and Prince had been in Delfeur-Nord on a provincial tour, and even Kastor had been nearby on border patrol. Nikandros, already in regular habit of meeting with his counterpart from the territory’s other side, had naturally sent along an invitation for a few days of hospitality.

It was good timing and impromptu planning, which boded well for the growing cordiality between their countries. It also meant, unfortunately, that Damen had been given little chance to prepare himself. Though at the very least he could be sure he knew what the other Prince looked like this time.

They welcomed the Veretians to the Akielon half of the province, with no grand feast but a casual show of friendship instead. The hall wasn’t very large, not when compared to the palaces of the capitals, and the food was uncomplicated but good. The wine flowed as well as the people who milled amongst themselves, small in number as they were—Nikandros and the men he kept, Lord Avenall of Delfeur-Nord and his retinue, and of course the royal guests.

Damen was managing to have a good time at the point when Kastor found him through the not overly dense crowd, handing over one of the two full goblets he was carrying with a dip of his head in greeting.

“I met the King,” he said after they’d both taken a drink.

Damen took a second drink before replying. He was, perhaps, not entirely over his wariness of possibly getting stabbed in his sleep. One had to be careful with older brothers sometimes. “And?” he asked. “Did you take to him?”

Without missing a beat, Kastor replied, “What I didn’t take was a handful of his arse.”

Damen inhaled his wine.

Kastor, because he was a terrible person, strode off in the other direction.

“I hate older brothers,” Damen said vehemently to himself when he’d finally stopped coughing.

 

Nikandros denied being the one who’d told Kastor.

Prince Laurent denied being the one who’d told Kastor. Or something Damen surmised to that effect, at least. The conversation had gone mostly like this:

> “Did you,” Damen begins slowly over breakfast the next morning, “speak to my brother?”
> 
> Prince Laurent turns his head to meet his gaze, blinks, and replies, “Speak to him, or _speak_ to him?”
> 
> Damen drops the pastry he’d been trying to pick up. “Never mind.”
> 
> “If you’re not going to have that,” the Veretian says, reaching over to pilfer it with a casual flick of his wrist. And then, with an arch of his brow, “No.”

King Auguste did rather seem a likely culprit, but Damen was not under any circumstances going to ask him. He could also of course ask Kastor, but he wasn’t going to do that either. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to talk to Kastor again.

With no formal events planned, Damen spent the next day plodding about the castle. He sparred with Nikandros, was pulled into a dry conversation about olive-based exports with the Lord Avenall, and overheard some truly impressively bawdy tales being exchanged in the courtyard where the Veretian guards were idling. Kastor, meanwhile, left to join his patrol once more with a promise to return for the final farewell.

He ended up on a ride with King Auguste in the afternoon, mostly as a result of organisation by Nikandros. The man was a very competent diplomat. Theomedes had made a good decision installing him as kyros, and as Damen’s official aide too on foreign visits. Not that _Damen_ wasn’t a good diplomat. Usually. Despite feeling the most comfortable with a sword in his hand, or at least at his hip, he’d never scorned the more subtle teachings of kingship that his father had sought to impart. He attended tiring meetings, long audiences without protest or distain. He was proud to say that he could wear the air of a leader in the council room as well as on the battlefield, and never assumed he would be a good one without work.

He usually had much better luck charming lovers into his bed too. But that was neither here nor there.

It was not the most relaxing ride Damen had ever been on. But, he’d go as far as to say it was marginally more relaxing than their last encounter, so that made for an improvement. The King was a good horseman, even as Damen had to wonder how nimbly one could move in the elaborately laced jacket and trousers the man was sporting. They didn’t make conversation, precisely, but Damen brought up a few points on the landscape and on the workings of the province, and they were greeted with interest. There. Improvement.

“I had the pleasure of meeting your brother last night,” the Veretian said casually when they were making their way back for dinner.

With an inward sigh, Damen replied, “And both your buttocks managed to remain entirely unmolested, I know.”

King Auguste twisted, turning in his saddle to stare at Damen blankly. He was really rather expressive of his emotions, for a Veretian.

“Yes,” he said, very slowly. “They did. I suppose.” And stared at Damen for a few more moments before finally looking away.

Alright. Not him who had told Kastor then.

 

The day after that, Damen ran into Prince Laurent in the library.

The man was already there when he entered, seated cross-legged on a cushion with a sizeable tome across his lap. He looked up at Damen, and his face lifted a little. Not entirely a smile, but it was getting close. Maybe.

“What are you reading?” Damen asked.

The Veretian propped the book up wordlessly, revealing the title as a annal of Akielon history that Damen was familiar with. Not a bad one, but it did get awfully wordy at parts.

He posed again, “You read Akielon?”

“Yes,” Laurent replied. “Do you?”

Damen laughed. And then said easily, “I thought that historian did a good job explaining the political intricacies of the Vaskian wars, even if it he did simplify the factors that contributed to Akielon victory. Probably because he didn’t want to admit how much luck was involved. I can recommend a good alternate account by Iotos of Sicyon, if you’re interested.”

The elegant, pristine features softened a touch. “Maybe in the afternoon,” Laurent said after a beat. His eyes twitched downward and he licked his lips, a brief flicker of a pink tongue. Then he said, “There are a few phrases whose meaning I am unsure of. More archaic ones, I think.”

Damen also licked his lips, without thinking. “Show me.”

A slave arrived while they were going through a dramatically written but confusingly flowery account of the Battle of the Eastern Pass, surprising them both out of their concentration. Damen didn’t miss the look of disapproval that crossed Laurent’s face when he regarded the young man who’d arrived with the furtiveness of one used to having to be invisible, and who now stood quietly still with eyes downcast as he spoke. Slavery was a dying tradition. The palace at Ios had taken the example of the northern kingdoms and ceased its training of slaves some time ago, and Damen was not accustomed to being served by slaves. Only some of the provinces had households old enough to still retain them.

“Would the Exalted like to request lunch be brought? As Kyros Nikandros is out, there is no public meal prepared today.”

“Not for me, thank you,” Laurent replied promptly.

“Nor me,” Damen added. “I will get something from the kitchens later.”

Without a word, or even a nod, the slave slipped away once more. Laurent’s lips remained gently pursed.

They continued on for another hour before Laurent put the book down and announced he was hungry. “So,” he followed up, “what can you get us from the kitchen?”

Damen raised a brow, and cast him a small grin. “I said I would get something from the kitchens, I never said I’d get you something. Maybe I’ll take it all for myself.”

Blandly, Laurent said, “Has the cook by any chance made buns today?”

There was a rustling sound as Damen’s fingers dug into the cover of the cushion he’d been propping his weight on. Also a long, speechless moment as Prince Laurent managed to look not at all like he was silently laughing. Finally, in a pinched voice, Damen said, “I apologised for that, did I not? My—” he trailed off.

“Eagerness for buns?” Laurent supplied.

Another rustle.

“Actually,” the Veretian continued, tone dipping into just the hint of a drawl. “I don’t believe you did, in fact. Apologise.”

“Oh.” Damen shifted his gaze, very carefully, to meet Laurent’s eyes from where it had previously been fixed somewhere to the left of his ear. He took a breath. “Well,” he said, with gravity, “I do. I acted poorly and not befitting of the respect you deserve. Or that anyone deserves.”

There was a pause before Laurent replied only, “Hm.” The line of his mouth had softened. He regarded Damen a few beats more, and then added, “Should I tell our nervous serving girls to come to Akielos? No point in worrying, I suppose, if the noblewomen here don’t even require them to open their legs first before losing respect for them.”

Damen pressed his lips together. “I don’t—” he began, “You need not see the lapse in my behaviour as a reflection of all those of my country.” A swallow. “Especially as I do hold great respect for you.”

“And my training on how to effectively take down someone larger than myself?”

“That too.”

“Hm,” Laurent said again. Then without inflection, “I’m flattered.” Though, as Damen watched, his lips began to curve again into their little dance, the skin around his eyes threatening to crinkle. His gaze flicked down off Damen’s face a moment, before returning. He appended, “And hungry.”

Damen nodded, hastily. “I’ll get you something,” he said.

 

The cook, in fact, had not made buns. She had made Damen’s favourite fruit tarts though, which he shared zealously with Laurent. The Veretian declared his ‘adequate’, and then ate two more.

After lunch they did end up looking up the account by Iotos of Sicyon, before which Damen insisted they wash their hands twice to avoid getting fruit stains on the pages.

 

“You were with the Prince yesterday,” Nikandros murmured across breakfast on the third day.

“Yes,” Damen replied. “We were reading. We didn’t despoil your library, don’t worry.”

“Oh I never thought there was any chance of that.”

Damen narrowed his eyes. Never mind that his friend was right.

“I don’t suppose,” Nikandros went on idly, “that you happened to mention anything to him about new cloth trading policies?”

Damen gave a half shrug, half shake of his head. “I don’t really know anything about cloth,” he admitted. Then frowned. “You don’t know anything about cloth.”

“I’m learning.” Nikandros picked up a piece of flat bread and topped it with a slice of yellow cheese. “One has to, living next to Veretians.”

“Ah. The new trade agreements have proved fruitful then?”

"Yes." The reply was sincere, and accompanied by a smile that was small but genuine. “Even if I have seen more embroidery in the last few months than I did in all my time living in Ios. Sometimes I’m tempted to enquire if the merchants over there are mistaking tablecloths for shirts.”

“They do love their wrappings, do they not,” Damen said with a chuckle as he reached over to pour himself a goblet of berry juice. “I do wonder how not one of them has ever thought to just tie up a sheet.”

“Well, I suppose it does get colder in Vere.”

“Two sheets.”

Nikandros raised a hand to deliberately stroke his chin. “You may be onto something, my friend.”

 

Kastor returned in the late afternoon to see off the Veretians as they departed in a flutter of intricate laces, as Veretians were wont to do. Not that much fluttering was really happening, given how tightly done up they were. Damen couldn’t say it was a real surprise a prince might remove his jacket to sit in his gardens.

"That seemed to all go rather well," Kastor said mildly as they stood side by side on the front steps of the main castle entrance.

Damen tipped his head to the side. "Yes," he replied. "Father will be pleased. Relations with Vere lie even more open than they have in the past years."

"Despite your efforts."

"Despite—" He broke off in glare.

At his side, Kastor’s lips twitched. The elder Prince had a stern face, serious features that lent themselves well to verbal battles with nobles across audience tables. That, along with the years that he had on Damen, meant he was inordinately good at appearing nonplussed.

"Your presumption upon the country's treasures."

The words had been quiet, at least, thankfully. Damen gritted his teeth. "Kastor."

"Your seizing of the royal goods."

"Stop."

"Your squeezing of the bountiful mounds."

Curse his brother for apparently paying more attention in poetry lessons than Damen had. "Please."

"Your palming of the peach."

"My— _what?_ "

Across the castle grounds, the last of the Veretian retinue was streaming its way through the far gates. Kastor raised his hands in a final wave, placid and regal. He was silent for a few moments, and then:

"Your fondling of the—"

“How,” Damen hissed through his teeth, “did you find out about that?”

Another twitch, slightly more violent. Then, “One of the men,” Kastor replied finally. “Quite chatty at dinner. King’s Guard, or was it Prince’s Guard? One of the two. Also quite flexible. Nice calluses.”

The guards. Were talking.

"I'm banishing myself to Isthima," said Damen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find that (amazing, *snigger*, amazing) gif on tumblr [here](https://joves-stash.tumblr.com/post/180321897490/chapter-2-of-that-ass-grab-fict-that).
> 
> This chapter in a discord conversation nutshell:  
> 
>
>> [l_cloudy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/): if you can sneak "palmed the peach" into your fic I will give you anything you want  
> me: Just for you guys


	3. Heavy Petting In The Court Of Vere

The second official Akielon visit to Arles had a different air to the first. Less rigidly tense than diplomatic affairs tended to be when held between ostensibly allied but closed-off nations had to be, when every smile was underlain with wariness and every gesture tipped in scepticism. It was good, Damen thought as they were greeted with what appeared to be genuine smiles. The fact that he didn’t immediately doubt the sincerity of anything performed by a Veretian was probably a good sign also. He murmured such reflections to Nikandros as they strode side by side through the grand palace doors flung wide for them, and received a muttered reply about other ways Damen found himself rigidly tense in Vere.

The welcome feast was the same grand spectacle as before, garish and raucous and luridly Veretian. Prince Laurent, who had managed to make it this time, had situated himself ahead of Damen in his spot at the high table. He was dressed in a boldly embroidered jacket of white and light green, and wore it so that it appeared stately on his frame instead of waifishly delicate despite the subtle colours. The neckline it sported was just slightly lower than his usual, letting show a silver choker that wrapped this throat in a slender, tightly linked chain of tiny hoops. A small curl of emerald hung from his ears to match both his clothes and the fine spill of his hair, which was half twisted into a tight braid and half loose at the back. Damen took the seat beside him. He accidentally bumped Nikandros with his chair when he pulled it out without looking down.

“There’s an attendant standing behind you, you know,” Laurent said out of the corner of his mouth. “It’s his job to pull out your chair.”

Damen refused to blush. “I’ve lead soldiers on patrol and eaten meat I hunted with my own hands in front of a fire,” he returned with all dignity. “I am capable of pulling out my own chair.”

“Right.”

Laurent managed to say it in the tone of one utterly unconvinced. To Damen’s other side, Nikandros snorted audibly. Damen kicked him—gently—in the shin. The same shin he’d bumped.

A wave of hustle and bustle overtook the hall as the first course arrived in a mingled waft of enticing scents. A veritable excess of choice it may be, and all done with a great deal too many coloured napkins and types of spoons that Damen could imagine being necessary, but the Veretians cooks did know how to make a good dish. Conversation dulled slightly to the clinks of serving cutlery for a few moments as everyone took their first tastes, then ripened again into exclamations of enjoyment and the sharing of recommendations.

“Do you—” Damen began as he finished off his first leg of meat, then paused to wipe a dribble of sauce off his chin. Laurent cast him a side-eyed look, and the corner of his mouth made a movement. Damen continued, “Do you usually wear jewellery?”

A hint of a smile ghosted pink lips, made a little pinker by the remnants of the glaze on the roast. Laurent tipped his head to the right, letting his earring dangle out a bit further. His weren’t the only items being sported in the hall, as Nikandros had so kindly pointed out last time, but they were a step more ostentatious than the others Damen had seen. It could be explained by Laurent’s higher title, perhaps, but something had Damen suspecting it didn’t stem from from any tradition.

“Sometimes,” Laurent replied. “Yes, usually, I suppose.”

“Why?”

The smile quirked higher. “Most of them are gifts, actually. The first I got from a friend. A good friend.”

“Oh?” Damen’s tone was very casual. He was sure of it. “A friend?”

“Mm.” Laurent reached over and cut himself another slice of roast. “He’s away right now, apprenticing with a physician in the countryside. Dreadful little brat. Some of it learnt from me of course, I think at least two of our courtiers petitioned my brother to never let me tutor any child again.”

“Oh,” Damen said again. “I see.”

“Anyway, he gave me a pair he found at some market stall. It would have been rather sweet, if he hadn’t gotten them for me precisely because he knew I wouldn’t wear them. So, of course, I wore them.”

He could imagine how that friendship had gone. “And then?”

“I looked good.”

A huff of surprised laughter escaped Damen’s lips. He couldn’t exactly disagree.

“Then after that,” Laurent continued, “I got a few more as courting gifts.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, it could have been seen as really quite disrespectful. Auguste even offered to give one of the men a talking to, and it took me a good while to convince him to let it go. Brothers, you know. Anyway, how familiar are you with Veretian courting customs?”

“I—that is—” Damen stumbled. Truthfully, he wasn’t. It seemed like rather a glaring oversight, now, but he hadn’t assumed there’d be anything much complicated to learn. Possibly a bad assumption to make, given Veretians.

Apparently unperturbed, Laurent explained, “To completely spurn the suit would be to return a gift. To demonstrate receptiveness or acceptance would be to utilise a gift upon some special occasion, usually to wear or bring the piece specifically for the next outing with the suitor. But to demonstrate a reluctance to pursue for the time being, though with the potential for some further chance to arise in future, that would be to wear or be seen with the gift socially amongst people other than the suitor. So is it being enjoyed, but not given any special value.”

Damen blinked. “That,” he said slowly, politely, “makes sense?” Not really, given he’d had a courting gift thrown at his head a time or two and that seemed a more efficient method for spurning a suit in any way, in his opinion. Perhaps this entire system had been devised by some particularly attractive Veretians to give themselves an excuse to still keep courting gifts from suitors they planned to refuse.

“So.” The Veretian pursed his lips. “As the Prince, it would not be a good idea for me to reject too aggressively anyone who may be liable to take offense and act accordingly against the royal family. Which, given the kinds of people I meet as the Prince, is everybody.” He reached out and picked up his goblet of water with his left hand, bringing it to his mouth for a small sip. “Well, except that time one of my brother’s men gave me a Vaskian stone cock, but I don’t think he was very offended when I returned that. I’m fairly sure he’s made good use of it himself.”

There was a pause. “A Vaskian what?” Damen said dumbly, half in shock from hearing the word ‘cock’ from the King’s brother at the high table of a formal banquet.

Laurent snorted lightly, sounding disturbingly like a haughtier version of Nikandros. “Really,” he murmured quietly, “you’re going to tell me you’re a prude _now_?”

“Then to avoid offence,” Damen pressed on, very hastily. “You must wear all your gifts socially? Including the jewellery not entirely appropriate to you?"

“Ah, yes.” The goblet hit the tabletop again with a scrape. Laurent gave a graceful little dip of his head, the quirk of his mouth significantly more pronounced. “That’s how the rest started.”

“Started? Then what happened?”

“I still looked good.”

Damen look away a moment, a small smile twitching inadvertently across his lips. He couldn't disagree with that either. Another moment later, it faded a fraction as he looked back. “So who gave you these ones then?”

“Oh, these.” Laurent reached up, giving the right earring a tap. It was a fine piece of work, gems twined flawlessly with their silver inset in the elegant shape of a twisting leaf, manifestly expensive without being extravagant. “A visiting minor lord, from Lys maybe? I forget.”

From everything Damen knew of the man, he very much doubted Prince Laurent would forget any noble of his country, let alone one who had visited Arles, let alone one who had shown interest in him. But, perhaps it was more that he didn’t care to remember.

Still very casually, Damen said, “So numerous, then, your suitors? So numerous you cannot recall them all?”

Laurent parted his lips, pausing a moment before he spoke. His eyes weren’t on Damen, looking out steadily over the seated crowd in front of them instead. “I can assure you,” he said levelly, “none of them have made quite as unforgettable an initial acquaintance as you.”

 

Their second night in Vere, Damen chose to stay in for dinner. He’d spent a dreadfully dull lunch with a number of Veretian nobles, and some other selection of wealthy men who held interests in shipping. He’d not even had Nikandros to secretively roll his eyes at behind his hands as they went over Akielos’s policies for large-scale import and export until the word ‘merchant’ came very close to losing all meaning. King Auguste had been organised to attend, but found some reason to be absent from the trade meeting as a last minute change to the agenda. Damen was simultaneously jealous and utterly unable to fault the man.

A knock came at his door about half an hour after he sent a messenger down with his apologies. He bade enter to a young man holding a tray laden with food, and dressed in a gossamer-fine, near-transparent tunic. His hair was red and brushed out in a gleaming curtain on either side of his painted face, subtle kohl outlining bright green eyes. The image didn’t seem entirely to make sense.

“Good evening,” the young man, obviously a pet, said. He strode forward, laying the plate down on the low table next to the couch Damen was sitting on. And then promptly sat himself down on the rich red cushions only a shade darker than his hair.

“You—” Damen started.

“I brought dinner,” the pet said. Then smiled, and leant in. “And I’m here to keep you company.”

“Thank you,” Damen said after a blink and an inward shake of himself, “but I do not require company for dinner.”

The smile on those pink-tinged lips sharpened. “After, then?”

“No.” Damen shifted back slightly, turning away. “Thank you for bringing the food. You are free to leave.”

The pet raised a delicate hand to twirl a strand of hair between his fingers, and pouted. He didn’t speak for several seconds, and then demanded suddenly, “Don’t you think I’m pretty?”

“You are,” Damen assured. Not really his type, to be fair, but as a fact it was undeniable.

“But not as pretty as the Prince.”

“Well.”

The pout deepened, plump lower lip pushing out further. “You didn’t even try to grab me anywhere yet.”

There was a soft splat as Damen, reaching for the soft bun atop the considerable pile of food, jerked and knocked it off its perch instead. He opened his mouth, froze like that for an inordinately long moment before, “Does _everybody in Vere_ know about this?”

The pet laughed, a high tinkling sound, and strangely seemed to relax. “My business is to know what’s going on,” he said, hand falling back to his side. “Especially regarding the Prince.”

And then he reached down somewhere under his tunic, and pulled out a small sheaf of papers. Damen tried not to stare. He had truly no idea where that had been hiding.

“Anyway,” the pet went on. “You’ll be in a meeting with my lord tomorrow, and there are a few points he’d like to make to you in advance. I believe you’ll find it useful too, to have things laid out properly like this before all the verbal eye-scratching begins.”

He held the sheaf out, and Damen took it gingerly. “Thank you,” he said for the third time. The man could be delivering worse things. He lingered a moment with his arm outstretched, inadvertently. The paper felt slightly warm.

The pet pulled back first. “If you’re having second thoughts about the company,” he said drily, with a toss of his head, “don’t. I already have a contract, actually. You couldn’t beat it.”

“Well, you know,” Damen felt the need to defend, disinterest in winning any contract or not, “I am the Crown Prince of Akielos.”

“Akielos couldn’t beat my lord. Not in what else he gives me.” Another toss of that fine head. The pet made as if to stand up, then stopped again. Leant back in.

“Really, not even a little squeeze?”

“Please,” said Damen. “Leave.”

“Just a pat.”

“Go.”

The pet went. The ring of sibilant laughter followed as he made his way to the door and out, hips gently swishing from side to side.

He actually did have a pretty nice behind.

 

Damen was pretty sure he didn’t imagine that the talks this time were significantly more tedious than the last, the friendliness of the visit notwithstanding. The bulk of the agreements between their countries had been set the year before and required only a cursory revision and update with the Veretian King and Prince, but other important courtiers seeking to go through finer points or discuss directions of further potential seemed to be pouring out of the cracks between the stones. At least he had Nikandros beside him at the tables for some of the rest of them.

“It’s like taking a new lover,” his friend said drolly when he brought the topic up toward the end of their week. “We’ve finished with deciding whether or not we can really stand each other, and now comes working out all the boring details.” Nikandros reached up to scratch his nose. “Besides, I rather think the King had reasons last year to keep you from meeting very many nobles.”

Damen deigned not to reply to that.

The last day of their stay seemed to sneak up as a surprise on the heels of a very full itinerary, the final dinner even more wildly grand than the first as everyone who held any title in the entirety of Vere—so it seemed—had managed to make their way to Arles throughout the week. Some had interests enough in Veretian-Akielon dealings to have warranted an official talk with Damen and Nikandros, others had merely come out of curiosity or to fish for social introductions.

Said introductions managed to occupy Damen most of the night, boxed in to one corner of the mingling hall by a persistent wave of eye-catching embroidery. Between exchanging pleasantries about his country and asking politely on the health of many, many families, he got only passing glimpses of the others throughout the night. King Auguste talked animatedly with his subjects, a goblet of wine firmly fixed to one hand. Nikandros, after doing his own drifting around the room, ended up to one side of a very large pot-plant standing awfully close to a handsome, dark-haired man who looked vaguely familiar. Prince Laurent meanwhile seemed to flit almost inconsequentially through the crowd, standing out in his perfectly matching jacket and pants of shining ivory, a drop of dark red at each of his ears.

A server walked by holding a tray of little tarts as the common wine was switched out for a sweetly strong after-dinner liqueur. Damen took one, bit into it, and found it very good. Demanding as it could be, he could possibly get used to Veretian hospitality.

They gathered late the next morning for their departure, banners and men lining the path leading out from the palace doors and attendants standing ready at attention with their horses. Damen found himself standing alone when he arrived, Nikandros notably absent, apparently still on his way. The man had missed breakfast as well.

The Veretians were already there, standing to the side. King Auguste took the time to extend his official thanks to Damen and Akielos, the morning light glinting off his wide gold crown as the two of them clasped forearms in the Akielon way. Damen vaguely heard steps approaching behind him as the King stepped back and Prince Laurent took his place, silver circlet equally bright in the sun. He wore no earrings in his formal dress, Damen noted with a hint of disappointment.

“It’s been a productive visit,” he said.

“It has,” Damen replied.

“I believe you’ve made a strong impression on my countrymen.”

Damen quirked his lips into a small smile. “Have I?”

A beat, then Laurent smiled back. Not a subtle twist to his lips, or a tiny hint of mirth, but a true smile. It made his face as bright as his crown. “Will you be in Delpha again this spring?” he said in lieu of goodbye. His voice was not loud, words falling close between them.

Damen’s smile warmed further. “I can be.”

When he stepped back, it was to realise Nikandros had finally joined him. In the man’s defence it had only been a few minutes, hardly enough to truly constitute being late. But Damen didn’t miss the touch of tiredness around his friend’s eyes, or the rumpled cast to his hair. He smirked.

“Long night?” he said, voice low, in Akielon.

Nikandros raised his chin, looking not at all ashamed. “Quite.”

“That man you were talking to at dinner?”

He looked a little surprised Damen had noticed.

Damen continued, “Wasn’t he one of the ones talking ours ears off about sugar the other day? Seemed rather boring, for your tastes.”

“Hm," Nikandros replied, "he was.” Then he smirked too, and little bit too much. “Until we spoke on the balcony. Or rather I was standing on the balcony, and he walked up behind me and palmed me. Above my thigh.”

Damen blanched.

“And you know what he said?” his friend continued cheerfully. " _I was told that's how Akielons greet those they find attractive_."

He couldn’t quite get his face to move.

“It was quite shocking. Really. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so shocked.”

Words seemed difficult to grasp.

“I know what you must be thinking. In fact I’m even surprised myself—it actually worked for him. But, well, he was really quite sheepish when I explained his mistake.”

So was higher-level thought.

“And he’d already bought me a drink first.”

With horror, Damen said at long last, “Everyone in Vere _does_ know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The latest squeezable art on tumblr [here](https://joves-stash.tumblr.com/post/180425443385/chapter-3-of-that-palming-of-the-peach-fict-that).
> 
> Sponsorship comment for this chapter from the darling [Mels13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mels13/pseuds/Mels13), for the Americans among us: _Everyone needs a roasted Damen to enjoy on Thanksgiving._


	4. Prince Laurent Is Very Hot

The trip to Delpha that year was much less an accident than the previous. This time it took a few letters, and a little prodding and coordination before Damen found himself once more welcoming the Veretians into the castle Nikandros so proudly called his own. What he hadn’t organised was Kastor being on patrol in the province again, but some things couldn’t be helped.

“They look a little like wall hangings riding horses, don’t they?” Kastor said quietly out of the corner of his mouth as the party halted to dismount.

Damen muffled a snicker. Lord Avenall in particular appeared to be sporting particularly thick trousers which stiffened his legs rather awkwardly. “Or falling off horses.”

Kastor’s snort was slightly more successfully muffled. “Do you think they rode all the way like that? Or did they stop behind the last hill and put their jackets on in a bid to convince us Veretians never get hot?”

Damen raised his eyebrows. “You know, that’s a good question.” Especially since it was already shaping up to be an unreasonably warm spring, even up here in the north. “It does sound like something they’d do.”

Nikandros stepped forward to give his official welcome as host, and there were a few minutes lost to formality. Damen watched the Veretians closely for signs of perspiration. They certainly hid it well, if they were in any discomfort.

“You visited,” Prince Laurent said as his only greeting as he crossed the distance to where they awaited. His hair was pulled back into a practical braid, but a few strands had managed to slip free by his right ear. His eyes were on Damen, the words falling solely between them.

Damen took a small step forward of his own. “You asked me to.”

“Did I?” After his words, Laurent’s lips came to rest gently parted.

“You visited too.”

“So I did.”

To the side, there was a cough and quiet mutter of rapid Akielon. Damen didn’t look at his brother.

“He speaks Akielon,” he muttered back under his breath.

“Does he flirt any better in it?” Kastor replied just as quickly.

“Oh,” said Laurent. “Good day to you too, Prince Kastor.”

 

It seemed that Veretians did, in fact, get hot, as all of them declined the invitation to accompany Damen and Nikandros on their hunt the following day in favour of remaining in the castle’s cool stone walls. It was a productive hunt, the two of them—along with a selection of their soldiers—bringing back two deer and a handful of rabbits. Not that there was any shortage of food in Delpha, but he and Kastor had often hunted in Mellos in their youth and Damen found himself missing the climes of northern Akielos when duties kept him most months of the year in the capital.

The chance to speak unheeded to his friend was also greatly welcome as always. They exchanged letters while apart, of course, but it wasn’t the same as when they’d spent every day side by side training and sporting and laughing. That had been youth, but they were all getting older now. Nikandros had his province, Damen had his growing list of princely responsibilities. Kastor was being mollified by his head-ranking commission in the army, and Theomedes was greying more year by year.

They spoke of every sort of matter for some time while they rode, sword-work, tournaments, the new cook in Ios, a horse breeder’s recent rise to renown. Also exasperating councilmen, news from Patras, and the latest round of tax collection. They were on their way back, the sun starting to fade to orange in the sky behind them, when Nikandros brought up their guests.

“So, you still have both your hands.”

Damen rolled his eyes. “Thank you for your faith in my actions.”

“I once had faith you could visit a foreign country without causing an international incident.”

“I didn’t.”

“Only because the Prince has a sense of humour.”

“He does, doesn’t he,” Damen mused. He found himself smiling. “It’s hard to see on the surface, but it’s there.”

There was silence for a few moments. When Damen looked over at his friend, he found him staring back in a mute sort of fortitude.

“You like him,” Nikandros said eventually.

Damen frowned. “You knew that already.”

“You really like him.”

A slow blink. “Yes?”

Nikandros looked away, eyes flicking back to stare out over his grey stallion’s head. He seemed to give a silent sigh. Then, “Do watch your hands,” he muttered. “I think you need those to fight and write and wave in a princely fashion and all.”

 

The next morning dawned hot and heavy, the press of encroaching summer even more forceful than before. Cool water from the deep wells was brought in over breakfast to the gratitude of all and the servers discreetly made especially sure that the Veretian cups did not run empty. Laurent arrived halfway through, sporting the lightest of short tunics though he was still mostly covered from wrist to neck, only a bare few laces undone at the top so that his collar hung loose from his throat. When he declined another invitation to go riding, Damen spoke up.

“Did you really ride here in that jacket and trousers?”

Laurent looked a little taken aback. “What?”

“Doesn’t it get warm?”

The Veretian took a long sip of his water. “Sometimes.”

“So,” Damen gave a vague wave with a hand, “don’t you ever take them off?”

Laurent turned his head quite slowly to regard Damen fully. One brow quirked. “And what? Go riding without trousers? That doesn’t sound comfortable.”

“You’d be surprised,” Damen murmured, half to himself.

Laurent went on, unheeding, “Were you thinking we’d arrive without our clothes?”

“Well, not all of them.”

“How barbaric.”

Damen’s eyes narrowed. “Your jacket is undone,” he said.

“Yes, I know,” Laurent pursed his lips, and took another sip. “How barbaric.”

The answer a Veretian could give to 'how barbaric', it seemed, came that afternoon. Damen was sitting in one of the alcoves contained in the corridors near his room, one that overlooked the gardens on the eastern side and missed the hottest rays of sunshine, when a page boy approached him.

“Yes?” he inquired.

The boy bowed. “Prince Laurent would like to request your presence in his rooms, Exalted.”

Damen’s pulse tripped over a beat. _Hands_ , he reminded himself sternly.

“Very well,” he said after only the slightest of pauses. “Thank you.”

The boy bowed again, and padded away.

The Veretian visitors had been placed in the best of guest rooms, not quite as well-furnished as the king’s chambers that Damen had been allocated but also not far behind. The guard at Laurent’s door wordlessly—though not without some movement of his eyebrows—let Damen through into a sizeable sitting area. It was an elegant room, sparsely decoration in the Akielon style, and also empty. He hesitated.

“Prince Laurent?”

“Through here,” came the reply, crisp and clear through the open door of the bedchamber.

Damen swallowed.

The bedchamber was only about half the size of the sitting room, occupied with a large curtained bed and a dresser by the wide windows. The dresser was piled currently with several neatly-folded items of clothing, as well as a set of a spare bedcovers. Laurent stood beside it.

He was, regrettably, clothed.

He was, less regrettably, clothed in a chiton.

Damen knocked his knee into the doorframe. Laurent turned, looking over from where he’d been facing the window. His smile was only a touch sly.

“I had the steward bring it for me. Did I tie it right?”

The fabric was loose on his slighter frame, though the bare arms and legs it revealed were well-muscled and lean. Damen strode forward, then stopped when he reached another man, having not thought ahead to what he planned to do once he arrived. Cautiously, he reached a hand to smooth out the roughly pinned wad of fabric at Laurent’s shoulder.

“Decided to take your clothes off after all?” he ventured when he managed to unstick his throat.

“Well, when amongst barbarians.”

Damen plucked out the pin with one hand, holding the fabric in place with the other. The folds fell a little around Laurent’s shoulder without revealing much more skin. The pin was bare, plain functional metal. He repinned it more neatly.

“There.”

Laurent’s smile was unguarded. Their faces were rather close.

“Thank you.”

Pale lashes blinked once, slowly, then the Veretian took a step back. Damen let his hands fall, just registering the loss of the heat beneath his palms when Laurent turned his head again and nodded to the side of the bed.

“Will you put those on me?”

Damen followed his gaze, and saw it was directed at a pair of Akielon-style sandals. These, at least, looked about the right size. He looked back at the other man.

“Having trouble working out how to put sandals on too?”

There was a tilt of the blond head, loose hair slipping past one shoulder. “No. But I know better than to bend over in front of you.”

Damen knelt.

He reached over and pulled the sandals toward him, lifting one and slipping it over the foot that Laurent raised. They were the kind that laced high, and he wound the ties up over the calf before clipping them at the top. When he finished with both he sat back on his haunches, and looked up.

Laurent stood with one knee still bent forward, fanning out the hem of his chiton along his well-defined thigh. He watched Damen through slightly hooded blue eyes, lips parted and a light flush across his high cheekbones. It brought colour to his skin, which was elsewhere almost as pale as the cream of the fabric he wore, or of the sheets of the bed behind him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. He gaze was locked to Damen’s. He spoke the words in Akielon, soft accent wrapping around them like the trail of a fingertip down a cheek. Or leg.

An instant, a single moment passed in stillness. Barely the space between heartbeats but also an age, the rise and fall of a kingdom.

Then, Laurent set his heel on the ground.

“I’ll see you at dinner.”

After a second, the words made sense. After another, Damen’s knees unlocked enough to let him to stand. He did so. Gradually.

“I’ll see you.” It was fortunate they were already speaking Akielon. He didn’t quite register fully that he’d said it in his native language.

His step felt lighter as he turned and strode out.

 

When Prince Laurent entered the dining hall for dinner, every head turned. To Damen’s side, King Auguste broke off halfway through a sentence to Lord Avenall to be overcome with a look of perplexed bemusement. Across the high table attention fanned out like a wave, and among the low tables the hush was palpable. Laurent didn’t look at any of them. He met Damen’s eyes without a pause, and smiled.

“He,” said Nikandros at Damen’s elbow.

Damen turned quickly. “Hm?”

“—is wearing a chiton.”

“Yes.” He gave a brisk nod. “That is correct.”

Nikandros stayed silent, not speaking again. His eyes remained fixed.

“ _Hey_ ,” Damen broke in several seconds later.

“Hm?” Nikandros said, still staring at Laurent’s bare legs.

“ _Stop staring._ ”

“What?” He looked away finally, meeting Damen’s sharp gaze artlessly. Then stated, “Alright, I don’t blame you.”

It was Damen’s turn to say, “What.”

“Though you still should have at least brought him a drink first. Or a horse. Or a kingdom.”

“ _Nikandros_.”

His friend shrugged, entirely too placid. “I said I agreed with you. Don’t get used to it.”

 

The third day, Laurent did go riding with Damen. His chiton was even shorter in the saddle. He was open in his enjoyment of the countryside, and the sun, and returned with startlingly good recommendations about riding without trousers. King Auguste, to his credit, looked considering as he heard them out. Lord Avernall looked like he was about to faint.

They spent the afternoon in the gardens, where a breeze began to pick up as the hours went by. It billowed the hem of Laurent’s skirt and drew it high up his legs, the chiton already loose on him the way it had been cut for someone with a larger frame. After the third guard coincidentally walked by them, Damen undid the red sash that he’d donned that morning around his waist as a touch of more formal dress.

“Here,” he said, “raise your arms.”

Laurent did so, after a moment of pause. Damen reached out and hitched the sash low on the Veretian’s hips, drawing it tight. He explained, “You were flapping.”

Laurent’s lips were curved. “But now you’ll flap.”

“Mine isn’t quite so spacious.”

The pink lips curved further. “Well, apparently I’m not as much of a giant animal as the rest of you here.”

“Don’t worry,” Damen assured, “you have other charms.”

Laurent redressed in his own clothes for his departure the next day, to the disappointment of probably far too many people. It had become familiar now, their routine of goodbye, and Damen stood at the castle doors with a tighter curl than before of something in his chest as the Veretians mounted up. In their trousers.

Summer, he told himself. And they’d be visiting again.

“I saw,” Kastor said as he held his arm raised to wave, “that you managed to get the Prince out of his pants.”

A muscle in Damen’s face jumped. “And how did you manage to see that?”

Still waving, came the reply, “I rode in during breakfast. He hadn’t changed back yet.”

Damen said nothing. After another beat, Kastor put down his arm. Then, without turning, in a tone that sounded far too speculative, he said, “You know.” Something glinted in his eyes. “I don’t blame you.”

Damen’s nostrils flared. “Please,” he begged his brother earnestly. “Don’t.” ****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find this darling Nikandros (and his luscious locks) on tumblr [here](https://joves-stash.tumblr.com/post/180460271365/chapter-4-of-that-just-a-pat-fict-that).


	5. How Not To Start A War

The brightly-coloured banners of the palace at Arles were managing to become a welcome sight. Or, at least, they were hurting Damen’s eyes less these days. What with the other welcome sight that lay beneath them.

They arrived in the early afternoon, and so after being met by their hosts—the Veretians shining as brightly in ivory and gold as the walls behind them—they were shown to their rooms this time for a few hours’ respite instead of straight into the opening feast. And shown only in the most cursory of fashions, as it was. By now they all knew the way to their quarters. They were among friends.

King Auguste was already at the high table by the time they did arrive at dinner, and Damen took the seat beside him with a warm grin. A conversation was struck up in a few words about how the last months had transpired for the two of them, which turned into one about summer festivals, and then about organising events for the court. Nikandros joined them not too many minutes in.

Laurent arrived just as the food service was beginning, entering through the doors like a wave crashing on rock. Damen’s eyes were on him before he’d finished taking his first step over the threshold. He’d changed, between earlier in the afternoon and now, replacing the formal whites with a lighter jacket of midnight blue. His trousers were black, and a wine-red belt wrapped his waist in elegant, stark contrast.

No. Not a belt. A sash. Damen’s sash, the one he’d left Laurent with that breezy day in Delpha. And the way he wore it, knotted elegantly at one hip with the end trailing to the knee, the style of it made a perfect fit. The looseness of its fall, against the strictness of the rest of his dress. Like a precise mix of Akielon and Veretian.

Damen’s heartbeat quickened. A conversation rose to memory, another year, another dinner, and Laurent’s outline of Veretian courting customs.

Their eyes met. Brown locked with blue, Laurent’s clear gaze as bold and steady as the gentle flood of warmth across his features. And in that moment, Damen felt he could have been the only man in the room. Even in the midst of the crowd, the nobles and courtiers and servants gathered around and between them, he felt it as keenly as a cry on the tide of that gaze. That this was for him. Only him.

Unfortunately, the night was a busy one. As with the previous time, there was a rotating multitude of notable people to arrest Damen’s attention, eagerly offering him every drink and delicacy in the room at least twice. He passed the hours with fortitude, smiling the smile that lay familiar though not elated on his face. It was how things went.

He was standing near the centre of the room amidst a crowd of four elder men at the time Laurent approached him. They’d only managed to catch each other’s attention a handful more times over the night, but he strode straight up to Damen now and waited patiently for the conversation to cease around them. The others were eyeing him as he tipped his head in a slight bow.

“Enjoying your night, Prince Damianos?”

Damen tipped his head back in accordance. “Of course, Your Highness. A grand feast as always.”

“I’m afraid,” said Laurent with a slight purse of his lips, “it has been a long day for me and I must be bidding you goodnight.”

“Ah.” Damen cast a look around, gaze flicking from side to side at the men he’d been in conversation with.

Before he could say anything more, Laurent nodded his head to the other men himself before turning back to Damen with something a touch more serious in his expression, and conceding. “I shall let you go back to entertaining your rapt audience,” he said. “We will speak later.”

Damen nodded, and bowed again. “Goodnight, then, Prince Laurent,” he replied, and understood as Laurent turned to stride away. That this night was not for them. But it was only the first of those they had.

 

He saw the man again the very next morning in fact, when he found himself in the meeting for the general revision of the political agreements. Though ‘meeting’ seemed a rather loose term given the lax mood as the four of them sat around the large table in one of the council-rooms, going through the documents lazily and being side-tracked into chatter every few pages. They spent the day like that, calling in a few dishes for lunch, King Auguste sharing his tales with the Akielons in a way more boisterous than Damen had expected from the Veretian. To his side, his brother was quieter, chiming in at key points with useful insights into their actual topic of discussion and arch comments on their anecdotes both. He was dressed in gossamer red today over pale cream trousers, a thin hoop of gold around his left wrist. Perfectly matching the sash wrapped once more about his hips.

“Well, that was rather painless,” Damen said drily when they finally turned over the last page. “I can only hope the rest of your courtiers are this easy on me.”

Across the table, the King laughed. “Quite a lively viper pit, aren’t they,” he returned entirely good-naturedly. Then he gave both Damen and Nikandros a marked nod. “To another strong year, allies of Vere.”

Damen nodded back. “And to you, Your Majesty.”

The man stood, and offered out an arm to clasp. “Please,” he said, “call me Auguste.”

 

That night, Damen was talking with a noblewoman whose eyes kept straying to his biceps—not in a provocative way, but more like she was examining a particularly admirable horse—when an attendant bumped into him from behind. He jostled, wine sloshing a little in his cup, before he righted himself again. The attendant murmured an apology, Damen was turning with a reassurance when another set of words were whispered against the back of his ear.

“You must be feeling harried enough. Now may be a good time to get some air.”

He swallowed thickly, blinking twice as the attendant swept off efficiently without a backward glance. After a second paused in thought, he cut the noblewoman off in the middle of her next sentence.

“Forgive me, but I grow overwarm.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. Given this was northern Vere and he was dressed in a moderately fancy sheet, she had a right to her scepticism. Damen upped the charm on his smile, and let it slip a little contrite. He gave a small tip with his wine goblet, as if casting blame to it. Her own smile turned rueful.

“Have a good night then, Prince Damianos.”

The balcony that opened out from the great hall looked over the gardens, the waft of flowers sweet on the air and the fires of the city in the background. There was only a single torch lit by the wall, casting Prince Laurent’s face into flickering orange shadow. He turned from his place by the railing as Damen stepped through the doors, and let the curtain swish shut behind him.

He was beautiful. Damen had never stopped thinking it, but under the light of burning oil and the waxing moon he was a vision. One dressed in the colours of Damen’s own house.

“Your Highness,” he greeted. He didn’t intend his voice to be low, raspy. It was.

“I shared you with my countrymen one night,” Laurent said, voice just as low. “I think that’s fairness enough, don’t you?”

Damen let his lips curve. “It was a long spring.”

“It was.”

“And a hot one.”

“Less so when I was with you.”

His smile deepened. Under the glow of the fire, he saw it was returned, as warm as the flames behind them. He stepped forward, paused, then slowly reached out to lay his hands on either side of Laurent’s narrow hips. Over the sash. “It suits you.”

“Doesn’t it?” The Veretian shifted, one hand moving to join Damen’s. “I thought so too.”

Fingers trailed over the back of his hand, then slid to encircle his right wrist. Laurent’s gaze flicked downward.

“Did it take a long time to heal?” he asked.

Damen huffed a small laugh. “Not too long. Though I did get a little extra practice wielding a sword with my left.”

“Mm.” The blue gaze returned to his face. “You deserved it.”

Another laugh, drawn out more unexpectedly. “I did, didn’t I.”

Laurent kissed him.

The Veretian tasted like sugar pastries and fruit, like warm skin and welcome. His mouth was firm, gently persistent, and Damen fell into him with a sigh that sounded like breaking. His hands tightened around the other man’s waist, pulling their bodies together as he felt answering fingers slide around his neck, teasing the short hairs at the back of his head. It was the catch of a spark, the first tongue of flame finally fanned up from long-smouldering embers, standing on the balcony with this lover in his arms, the city and the stars as their witness.

Laurent was the one who pulled back, breaking apart only far enough to leave air for words between their lips. “It was a very long spring,” he whispered. “And a very long night too.” His eyelids dropped, falling hooded and heavy. “I find myself tiring, again. If you’d care to retire with me this time.”

They were close enough still that Damen’s nod brushed their lips once more.

In Laurent’s chambers, Damen undid the sash with careful fingers and dropped it to the bed where it bloomed vivid red against the white sheets. He got himself hopelessly tangled in the complicated laces in his eagerness, until Laurent laughed and reached up to undo them himself before Damen tore them in his frustration. He didn’t even manage to get himself out of his chiton before the other man’s hands were on him and sliding up under it, running over his thighs until they clasped around what lay between them. When Damen retaliated by running his own hands smoothly over Laurent’s bare back, down, far enough to slide his palms over supple swells, the Veretian’s eyes flashed.

“As good as you remember?”

Damen grinned widely. “Better. Much better.”

It was good, lightness and laughter mixing with the sounds of exertion as they tangled their bodies, the rub of skin against skin as delicious as the affinity they slotted into together. The push and pull, both slyly pressing for control before they fell into a rhythm, Damen sliding in with a groan that sounded like he was the one being opened up, touched deep inside. They kissed through smiles and mouths quivering with pleasure as they rolled over and back, one on top then the other, until Damen finally found himself laid out with Laurent astride him, muscular thighs bracketing his hips. Able to fully appreciate being mounted by a good horseman as he lost himself in a shout, answered in the cry of the man above him and in the tightening of the fingers on his flank until he felt the bite of nails just shy of pain.

Afterwards, loose and sated, they slept side by side. Most of Laurent’s clothing was scattered on the floor, Damen’s chiton lost somewhere in the other sheets on the mattress. The sash lay in a small bundle of red by one pillow.

 

Damen woke the next morning in what was possibly the most pleasant way a man could wake. Sunlight streamed in through the window that neither had remembered to draw curtains over the previous night, glinting gold off the blond head between his legs. He sighed and lay back, content to enjoy.

He didn’t make it down to breakfast, though he did end up with something in his mouth. The two of them spent the rest of the morning in Laurent’s chambers passing between them a plate of pastries that Laurent had sent for after announcing he was hungry—while astride Damen once more, to Damen’s appalled shock. They seemed well on the way to wiling away the entire day there when Damen finally sighed and pulled away, sitting up with a wince at certain overtaxed muscles.

“I probably should go,” he said reluctantly. “I’m sure I have another queue of nobles to meet.”

“Actually,” Laurent replied, stretching his arms above his head, naked and beautiful, “you’re free for the day.”

Damen raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Mm, I thought you’d appreciate a reduced itinerary this visit.”

Brows dropped again into a frown. “But, all those people at the welcome dinner. You can’t have sent them all home again?”

“Couldn’t do that, no.” The Veretian reached up a hand to brush a strand of hopelessly mussed hair off his face. “You’ll still be expected to socialise at dinner, but I redirected the meetings to your kyros. He won’t be having a reduced itinerary, unfortunately.”

Damen winced again, this for reasons entirely unrelated to his muscles. “Oh,” he replied, “how wonderful.”

“Isn't it? Now get back here.”

 

They spent the next few days lazing about the palace, Laurent showing Damen around the library and training yards and various other favourite spots. One of which included the gardens where they’d met—’met’ being the rather generous descriptor that it was. After that, he progressed to showing Damen around the city and the surrounds, leading him out on rides and even once on what was ostensibly a hunt but really just ended up as them finding a clearing where they could make love on the grass.

Nikandros didn’t even glare too hard the first time Damen ran into him after, only sighing and saying, “Well. You didn’t start a war.”

Damen had rolled his eyes, and wrinkled his nose. “Thank you for your still continuing faith in my actions.”

“You’re welcome,” replied Nikandros flatly.

The last day dawned from behind the hill that they lay curled up on over a picnic rug, having set out early to catch the sunrise. It was a clear day, warm and windless. Laurent’s hair, finally brushed back into order after having spent a considerable amount of time out of it, spilled loose over Damen’s chest where he was resting his head.

“Do you think I’d like Ios?” he asked as the sun crept its way over the horizon, bathing his city in pale orange.

Damen smiled, and tightened his arm around his lover. “You’d get to wear a chiton.”

Laurent tucked himself a little closer and replied, “Perfect.”

 

 

### Epilogue: The Rear End

  
The first time Prince Laurent of Vere met King Theomedes of Akielos, it went something like this:

> The Veretians arrive in grand procession through the gates of the palace at Ios, as Veretians are as always wont to do. It’s a show of informality that the Prince rides out ahead of his elder, dismounting in a single smooth motion at the base of the steps and dropping his reins behind him. Ignoring the raised eyebrow of his father beside him, Damen too breaks from his rank without ceremony to stride forward in greeting.
> 
> “Prince Laurent,” he says, extending his arm. And then again, more quietly, “ _Laurent_.”
> 
> Laurent steps up to him, face bright and lovely. “Damen,” he says, clasping the proffered arm. “It’s good to see you.”
> 
> And then he takes another step closer, and slips around his other hand to give Damen a quick squeeze on his left buttock.
> 
> Prince Damianos of Akielos most definitely does not squawk on the front steps of his own palace.
> 
> Behind him, there is a sound that is most definitely not his father, the King, choking on his own tongue.
> 
> “Well,” begins Theomedes when Damen rejoins the line of waiting Akielons. His eyebrows are very close to his hairline as he states careful, “That was rather forward. Is that how they do things in Vere?”
> 
> “No,” says King Auguste, who had dismounted and made his own way up the stairs in the meantime. He extends an arm to his fellow monarch, face gravely grand as he states, “No, it is not.”
> 
> Half a minute later, they’re turning as one large group to stride inside between the white columns, Damen walking ever so slightly stiffly and making sure to stay clear on the other side of the group to Kastor and the somewhat terrifying look of hilarity on his brother’s face. Bending down, he leans close enough to bump his lips into Laurent’s ear. _"I thought,”_ he hisses, _“you had forgiven me for that."_
> 
> Laurent turns, blinking at him lazily. “Whatever gave you that impression?” he replies, face utterly guileless. And then looks back to the front.
> 
> “Don’t worry,” he continues a moment later, expression melting cleanly away to reveal a definite smirk on his lips. He reaches down, and gives Damen another consoling pat. Below the waist. “I’m sure you’ll have a long time to make it up to me.”

 

_end_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last butt-eautiful gif is [here](https://joves-stash.tumblr.com/post/180493910430/thats-it-folks-last-chapter-of-that-damen)!
> 
> Wow, everyone, I just. This story was such a blast, and participating in the Big Bang and working with my wonderful artist was such an awesome experience. Thank you again to my very shrewd beta [veretianblue](http://veretianblue.tumblr.com/) as well as to many other people on the Captive Prince discord, this whole story really came from the encouragement from there and so many points of the story grew from brainstorming with everyone. And of course, let's have a last round of applause for my bb wife, the incredible [joves-stash](http://joves-stash.tumblr.com/) for bringing this story to life in such an amazing way. Their art has made me cackle and warmed my heart and I feel very blessed to have a part of this collab.
> 
> Find me on tumblr as [arsaces-of-akielos](http://arsaces-of-akielos.tumblr.com), and find a masterpost of all art links [here](https://arsaces-of-akielos.tumblr.com/post/180502454565/joves-stash-so-the-time-has-come-to-post-this). Thanks for seeing us to the end, everybody :)


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